The Wedding Diaries (20 page)

Thom: Yeah, I thought you liked that. But the rest of it has been awful, hasn’t it?

Me: It really has.

Thom: I don’t want us to forget what this is all about. Ever. Not just this wedding, but with all the stuff we’ll have to deal with: kids and work and houses and … well, all that stuff. The stuff we’ve got to do together.

Me: Alright, Winston Churchill.

Thom: It doesn’t make any sense to be dicks to one another.

Me: I don’t remember that line.

Thom: I might not work somewhere like this forever, Kiki. What would we do then? I’m afraid you’ve become rather comfortable being comfortable.

Me: I know, I know. But … this is still going to be a great party, and I’m doing this
with
you. So it would be better if we could do it together. So we both care about it, because everyone we both care about will be there. It doesn’t have to be … lavish, but it does have to be involving. Both of us. I’m not just going to invite you along to our wedding – it’s a party for us
both
.

Thom: [silent for a while] Yeah, sorry Kiki. Let’s not be stupid anymore.

Me: Let’s make this a wedding no one will forget.

Thom: [looking at me] OK, Keeks.

As good as her word, first thing on Tuesday, Jacki was in the office with all her notes. I asked her if she’d spent her first day as a married woman making more notes and she laughed. She said, ‘We really need to get those photos in from Pedro, so we can get our captions on each one and get them into the wedding pages. Because you’ll need to know the space for the text, right?’ Uh-oh.

‘The thing is, Jacki, I’m not sure Pedro and I have the best relationship right now. I maaaaay have kicked him on the shin at your wedding.’ Jacki started laughing, harder than I’d ever seen her laugh before, and asked me through her laughter what he could have done to deserve it. I felt a bit awkward – I wasn’t about to dob Pedro in, but I couldn’t think of a convincing lie fast enough. Jacki’s laughter slowed down. ‘Kiki, what did he do?’ Christ, I’d better think of a lie fast, or Jacki’s mind was going to be filling in the blanks with far worse stuff.

Me: It was nothing major. Really. I think he was a bit tipsy and probably pretty stressed, and I think I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jacki: [definitely very serious]
Kiki
, what did he
do
?

Me: [wishing Jacki was still laughing, so doing the laughing for her] Jacki, I’m fine, really. I think he thinks that I’m some kind of celebrity social-climber, and … that was it, really. It’s fine! Jacki, please! Do I look like it’s upset me? I
kicked
him on the
shin
, Jacki. It’s fine.

It was too late. Her face was completely white, and she was packing up her stuff and heading out the door. ‘I’ll be back later. Stay here.’ I kept trying to tell her – it didn’t matter – I was fine – please, let’s forget about it – but she was gone. Five minutes later, back at my desk, Alice arrived in for the day. ‘What the hell is going on out there?’ she asked. ‘Jacki is going absolutely ballistic at somebody. I would never have guessed she even knew some of those words.’

Whoah. Turns out she is one to have in your corner. But all her work is now done, and she is free to enjoy her honeymoon/married life/lovely fat Polka Dot cheque.

TO DO:

Music – maybe
just
a Ceilidh band, get quotes for shorter set

Flags? Seed packet favours? Ask Redhood Farm what favours they’ve had in the past

Streamers? Bird cages?

Naming a rose for our wedding day?

April 23rd

Speaking of which, it’s the Noses’ (Nick and Rose’s) wedding in the next few weeks. It’s been playing on my mind for months, although I’ve also been trying not to think about it – doing a continual double-think where I try not to imagine all the things that they might do differently to/better than us. Isn’t that rotten?

Thom went on Nick’s stag yesterday. They had an afternoon session at an ‘urban golf course’ – basically a dark cellar with a giant screen onto which they project a flat-looking course – followed by dinner at Nick’s club and a night at the casino. ‘See if you can seduce a rich woman into giving you some chips,’ I called when Thom was leaving. He said it was unlikely he’d be doing any seducing with a gang of seven wasted men with him, but I just eyeballed him until he promised he’d do his best to come back with chips from a wealthy widow. This morning, he tells me that one of the highlights of the night was Nick’s colleague turning up to the urban golf course, and when Nick, Thom and a few others were just trying to kick the ball as hard as possible at the screen, pulling out not only his own golf club, but also his custom-made golf glove. I can’t wait to talk to him at the wedding.

April 26th

My turn now. I’ve just had an email from Rose’s maid of honour about the hen party, next Friday. But don’t worry about me having too much time to kill this weekend – it doesn’t
finish
on Friday. Oh no. It only
starts
on Friday, and continues until SUNDAY NIGHT. Because who doesn’t like to spend an entire weekend on one member of a wedding party prior to spending another entire weekend on the pair of them? I can’t even back out as I’m one of Rose’s bridesmaids.
Who let this happen?

Maid of Honour hit us with this:

From: Helen Hudson

To: Fleur Riley; Bunny Gladwell; Rose Gold; Kiki Carlow; Greta Moore

Re: Hen Fun!

Hi Girls!

Everyone ready for the weekend? The house will be ready from noon, so Rose and I were thinking that we could have lunch at Paddington, then get the first train after that and catch cabs from the station to the house in the afternoon. I’ve found a really nice restaurant in the evening, in Cirencester, then we can come home and have a nice wine and DVD night (please can everyone bring one nice bottle of wine?). On Saturday, we’ve got a drawing class in the morning, lunch booked at the Lampley Hotel in Langton, then an afternoon at the spa and a really special treat in the evening – we’ve booked a chef to come and cook us dinner at the house! On Sunday, we’ll take a walk to the pub for lunch, then in the afternoon there’s chocolate-making in Gloucester, then we can all get the train back at 6ish.

Since it’s Rose’s hen, it’s not really fair to make her pay, so I think if we have money for the kitty for meals, it breaks down like this:

Lunch in London £120

Dinner £300

Drawing Class £120

Lunch £180

Spa £240

Chef £300

Pub £180

Chocolate class £120

House £350

So let’s say £390 each. Are you OK to send that to me? We can spend any leftovers on cocktails before the train home.

Thanks again, and see you at Paddington on Friday!

Lots of love,

Helen xxx

Not really so much with the OK. Definitely not OK. Something opposite to OK. That money is a summer holiday in Greece, or an amazing weekend in Paris, or a flight to New York. Is she
high
?

I made some calculations – if I could arrive late on Friday, citing lack of holiday allowance from work, then I could miss the lunch, and possibly even the dinner. But could I fake an illness that would get me out of the hen activities? And is there any more fun-repellent concept than a ‘hen activity’?

From: Kiki Carlow

To: Helen Hudson

Re: Hen Fun!

Hi Helen!

Thanks so much for organising this; I think Rose will have such a great time.

Unfortunately I’m not able to get Friday afternoon off from work, and the first train I can get doesn’t get into Cheltenham until 9pm, so I’ll grab something on the way and meet you back at the house for some wine and a DVD.

On Saturday, I’ve heard there’s a really charming market in Dunford Leas nearby to the house, so maybe we could go there rather than the drawing class? It might be nice to save our pennies for the fabulous hats we shall require for Rose’s big day. And on Sunday, what about each of us bringing a game along, and we can play them post-pub back at the house until we have to head back to our city grind?

Thanks so much again, Helen – can’t wait to meet you and all the others at last!

Kiki x

Bad, bad, bad idea.

From: Helen Hudson

To: Fleur Riley; Bunny Gladwell; Rose Gold; Kiki Carlow; Greta Moore

Re: Hen Fun!

Hi everyone.

It seems we’ve got a slight change of plan for this weekend – we’re not going to the art class any more or the chocolate-making, but we will have a visit to a market on Saturday instead. Can everyone please bring a game for Sunday, and we’ll play those games instead of the chocolate-making.

I think since Rose is so special to all of us, and it’s HER wedding, it might be a good idea for everyone to get into the spirit of things and understand that this weekend is for Rose, not for anyone else. It’s a bit selfish of those people who think we have to do everything their way, and maybe it’s time to think of Rose instead of thinking of those people who are supposed to be making it special for the bride.

See (some of you) for lunch on BANK HOLIDAY Friday,

Helen xxx

Oh yeah. No work on Friday. This will be fun!

I showed the correspondence to Thom, and said, ‘Look at this. Bunny. BUNNY. These are the people I have to go away with.’ He just looked at me for a moment, then replied, ‘KIKI. It’s hardly Jane, is it?’

Fair point.

April 27th

Popped in on Mum and Dad tonight before I went away for the weekend, to bore them about Redhood Farm a bit more. Mum kept her lips tightly clamped together, so I was surprised when Dad made some kind of sighing noise when I was talking about the services they offered there. I was hurt and confused rather than angry – it being Dad, not Mum, after all – but Mum just bustled him out of the room and upstairs before I’d even said anything. They were gone ages and when Mum came back, she was alone. She told me Dad wanted a quick nap as he’d slept so badly the night before. It’s rare that Dad’s a daytime sleeper. Why was he sleeping badly? Mum went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea without even the merest peep of an offer. I took that as the sweetest of hints and scarpered home again, leaving the brochure for Redhood Farm on the table where she could poke through it at a later date to tell me all the ways in which it was the wrong choice.

TO DO:

Table plans and place cards – can I further bribe Dan in our Art dept to rustle up some more designs?

Orders of Service – same?

Ribbons for decorations?

Table runners?

Any day now, start taking those vitamins

Have a practice makeover at Selfridges

Decide on first dance song

April 29th

I’m writing this by the moonlight coming in the kitchen window. It’s a little hard to write as my teeth are chattering so hard. I haven’t really warmed up yet.

My plan worked perfectly, up to a point. I arrived at Cheltenham station at 9pm, then realised I needed to get another train to a smaller station, Leasby, which was just down the road from our house. My phone was out of batteries and I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart, but it was only a four-minute hold until the connecting train, so I got to the correct platform and waited. At 9.03, there was a station announcement: ‘The train pulling into platform 2 is actually the 21.04 service to Bansham, calling at Cottingsbourne, Leasby and Marsh Hampton. If you wish to travel to any of these destinations, please travel to platform 2.’ I grabbed my bag and ran, down one flight of stairs and up another, leaping across the platform as the doors starting bleeping closed. But something was keeping me from making those final few steps. Looking down, I saw my trousers caught on the jagged edge of a station bench – my lovely Zara trousers! – and I pulled with all my might, tugging against the ripping cloth in a frantic attempt to make the train. The fabric finally gave way with a shocking
rrrrrrrrrip
which sent my straining leg catapulting into a passing commuter (‘What the
hell
?’) and then my overbalanced upper body slamming into the doors, now closed. I heard a
pheeeeeeeeeeeep
next to me on the platform as the railway employee a foot away from me the whole time raised his paddle and signalled the train on its way. He turned his dead eyes on me and said, ‘Lucky for you that man didn’t press charges for assault.’ Assault felt like a dangerously attractive idea just then, but I hobbled down to the ticket office to ask about the next train. ‘Not to worry!’ said the grinning man behind the plexiglass. ‘It’s only an hour to wait! Maybe you’ll be on the right platform this time!’ Only the thought of the luxury bed awaiting me (and having witnessed the ferocity of the transport police and heard tales of how long they could detain angry travellers) held me back from just roaring directly at his face through the plastic wall between us. I smiled through gritted teeth, my eye tic-king, found an intensely uncomfortable cold metal bench to sit on for the next 55 minutes, and took my book out. 52 minutes and one numb rump later, another announcement: ‘For all those waiting for the 22.04 to Bansham, calling at Cottingsbourne, Leasby and Marsh Hampton, this will be departing from platform 3 – platform 3 for the 22.04 service to Bansham. Not platform 2!’ I was beginning to wonder if this was actually a really terrible dream, but the train arrived on time, on the platform I’d been told, and none of the station furniture was determined to keep me from it, so I took my seat next to a snoring schoolboy in an ancient dusty three-carriage train and was grateful for it. After twenty minutes, I was disembarking at Leasby (still no train fittings holding me back) and walking across the platform, through the tiny station, and out. Out into the dark, empty road, without a taxi rank – or a car – in sight. I went back into the one-room station, and asked the woman behind the counter, shutting up for the night, where I could get a taxi. ‘A taxi!’ she chortled, as if I’d asked for a saddled elephant. ‘Not at this time, not on a Friday!’ Why were all these station staff so good-natured? Why did they find their own uselessness so entertaining? I showed her the address of where I was going, and she told me it was only a five-minute walk up the road. ‘You can’t miss it, love, straight out, turn left, walk for five minutes and it’s the big yellow house on your right.’ There was a subtle but unmistakable stress on the word ‘big’ and I saw myself as she saw me – some Londoner with fancy weekend bags, come here to drink wine and destroy the fabric of their community. Fine. I could play her game. ‘Brilliant! Thanks so much!’ I beamed. We smiled at one another until my face ached, then I remembered the red wine in my bag and I turned on my heel, out of the station and towards a corkscrew, a glass and a bed. I started off down the road, and the skies opened. And I mean
opened
. This wasn’t rain, this was karmic revenge that must have hung about from a former life since there’s no way I’ve done anything that bad in this one. I was drenched in moments. Trying my best to shield my bag (with my dry outfits in) with my hunched body, I continued up the road towards the promise of support. About a minute after I’d left, when the rain had filled my shoes and frozen my finger tips, a car drove past, hooting with great jollity, and the woman from the station waved gaily at me through the passenger window. If I’d had any strength in my body I would have hurled my bag at her, but I just smiled gaily at the retreating car, waving my free hand until it was out of sight, then let out a sob and started walking again. After fifteen minutes I arrived at the house, soaking wet, in torn trousers, late and hungry and cold, skirted round a car blocking the whole front path, and rang the door bell. Rose answered the door.